


Running All the Way

by semperama



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: 5 Things, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 04:17:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8474995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperama/pseuds/semperama
Summary: Five things Chris did to take his mind off of Zach after the Star Trek Beyond press tour, and what happened when he stopped trying.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aprilleigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprilleigh/gifts).



> I started writing this MONTHS ago, on the Pinto Getaway, and the gals there helped me come up with things that Chris might do to occupy his time after the press tour, so really I want to dedicate this to all of them. But particularly to April, who gave me the idea in the first place. <33

### 1\. Gardening

It’s too quiet in the house. There are more rooms than Chris remembers, and more empty space in each of them. He opens all the blinds to let the sunlight in, but that only brings into clearer focus the vacant couch, the kitchen table with too many chairs, the bed that sits unmade because if Chris tidies it up it just looks even emptier. He remembers a few days ago, nudging Zach in the ribs and leaning over and muttering, _When this is all over, I’m not leaving my house for weeks._ He remembers the way Zach had laughed but looked away. The memory makes him feel sick to his stomach.

Last night, he collapsed in bed and slept for nearly twelve hours, waking just before noon to make coffee and nibble at a granola bar and wander around the house. He thinks there are things he wanted to do when he got home, a whole list of projects he’s been keeping in his head, but he can’t remember a single one of them now—and even if he could, he isn’t sure he has the energy or drive to get any of them done. A whole passel of housesitters has occupied his house off and on over the past several months, most of them trusted friends who’ve done a good job of keeping the place from falling to pieces. Nothing seems urgent. Not urgent enough to shake him out of his funk, anyway.

So he goes outside, because if there’s one thing he knows always needs to be done, it’s weeding the garden. He could pull up weeds every damn day, and there would always be more, new ones springing up as soon as he’s yanked out the others. It doesn’t help matters that his yard, like his house, is too fucking big. He wishes he could go back and smack his younger self in the head, tell him that just because he has money doesn’t mean he needs to spend it all. That cramped apartment with the beaten-up furniture was the best place he would ever live, and he threw it away because he thought he needed a movie-star-level bachelor pad.

The garden _is_ nice though.

Chris prides himself on being able to do things himself. He has people who come in and tend to the plants, but that’s because he lacks the time, not the ability. Now, he’s grateful that he can get down on his knees in the dirt, that he can tell the difference between a seedling and a weed, that he knows which plants need more water and which ones need less. The smell of the rich soil is comforting, and he likes the way it feels between his fingers, cool and damp when he digs down deep enough. He even likes the way it gets under his fingernails and dirties up his cuticles, making him feel, momentarily, less like a spoiled A-lister and more like a regular guy.

It works, for all of half an hour. He doesn’t think about Zach until he gets to the end of the first bed and sits down for a second on the flagstone patio to look out over the pool. The last time he was out here for any length of time, he wasn’t alone. Zach had stayed with him for almost a full week during the Los Angeles leg of the press tour, and one night they’d grilled out, zucchini fresh-picked from the garden and thick, indulgent steaks. Zach had made tiramisu for dessert, extolling the benefits of Chris’s huge kitchen through the open patio doors while Chris grinned down at the grill and imagined that it was all permanent. 

But it wasn’t permanent, and Zach isn’t here now. He’s back in New York, and all Chris has for company is a bucket full of weeds.

He kicks over the bucket, and his haul spills out across the stone in a spray of dirt. What a stupid idea, gardening. What a stupid fucking idea. Back inside he washes the dirt off his hands with scalding water, scrubbing at his cuticles until they crack and bleed.

### 2\. Cooking

After Anton’s funeral, Zoe gave Chris her mom’s recipe for _pasteles_ , believing—as many do—that food is the best medicine for the grieving. Then, Chris had been too tired and overworked, too weighed down by sadness, to even attempt to make them. Now, he feels ready to tackle it.

It’s not a simple task. When he was younger, he visited a friend’s house when they were making tamales for Christmas, and he got to help carefully wrap a corn husk around each little package of deliciousness and then set it in a pot wider than the span of his shoulders. This is like that, but he has to do all the steps before it too, and there are a _lot_ of steps. He makes the _recado_ from scratch, though Zoe said he might be able to find it pre-made at a speciality grocery store. By the time he’s done with the _sofrito_ his whole house smells like bacon and spices. He throws the doors to the porch open wide and looks out at the palm trees and imagines for a moment that he is miles and miles away, in another country, in another life.

It takes him forever to wrap the _pasteles_. The first few, he messes up, the filling eeking out of the seams of the masa despite his best efforts. Even once he gets the hang of it, he takes his time, folding the wide green plantain leaves into rectangles with corners as neat as hospital beds, corners you could cut yourself on. By the time he is finished and all the _pasteles_ are in the pot, it’s growing dark outside. While they boil, he snacks on cheese and wine and watches the pot, letting his mind go blank. His phone is across the room, sitting on the kitchen table. He doesn’t look at it. He stares at the bubbling water.

He made too many. Three dozen, in fact. What was he thinking? (He was thinking he needed to waste a day somehow.) As he stands there and looks at them piled high on the counter, he feels laughter bubbling up into his throat, then escaping out of his mouth. It sounds a little too much like sobbing for his taste, so he presses his hand over his lips to keep it in. He squeezes his eyes shut. It’s fine. This will just be lunch for the next couple weeks. It makes _sense_ to cook in bulk.

He sets one plate and his wine glass out on the table. Then, he puts three _pasteles_ on the plate. It feels strange sitting here alone, even though this is far from the first time he’s done it. His hands curl around his phone. He lifts it and takes a picture.

_Trying your recipe_ , he types, then sends it to Zoe. It’s after nine, so he doesn’t expect anything back from her—she’s probably putting the babies to bed—but he’s surprised when his phone immediately starts ringing.

“You’re moping, aren’t you?” Zoe asks him, having barely given him time to say hello first.

“I’m not moping,” Chris says. “I just felt like cooking today.”

“Mhm. How many did you make?”

“Uhh. As many as the recipe called for.”

“So thirty-six? Forty? What army are you feeding?” 

Chris looks around at the empty table, the three other chairs pushed all the way in. He should turn on the patio lights, he thinks. It’s getting too dark.

“I’ll freeze the rest,” he says.

“Sweetie,” she says with a long-suffering sigh, “do you want to meet up sometime this week? Get some lunch or something? My schedule’s pretty full but—”

“Zo, I’m fine,” Chris insists. “I’ve finally got, you know, _time_ to devote to things like cooking, and I’m just...enjoying it. That’s all.”

“If you say so, Chrissy.”

She definitely isn’t buying what he’s selling, but then she always was the perceptive one of the bunch. Scarily so, in fact. It’s fine. He doesn’t need her to buy it. As long as she doesn’t get off the phone and call Zach—which is something she’s been known to do.

“Maybe I don’t quite know what to do with myself, but can you blame me? I was working for over a year without any breaks. Surely I’m allowed an adjustment period.”

“Oh, sure. We all expected you to have one,” Zoe says. “Complete with a meltdown. There’s a betting pool going.” She laughs at his indignant sound. “Of course _I_ didn’t put any money in. I’m not actually expecting a meltdown, per se.”

“What are you expecting?”

“Let’s just say you’re right on schedule, _gordito_.”

“I appreciate the support,” Chris says, rolling his eyes.

“You’re welcome. Really though, let me know if you want to get lunch, okay?”

He tells her he will, but he knows he isn’t going to bother her, no matter how bad it gets. She has a family and a husband and a career that’s even busier than his. _Three_ major franchises; when does she sleep? It’s sweet of her to worry about him. It’s sweet of all of them—because Chris can read between the lines and he knows “betting pool” translates to, _After all this is over, how do we all make sure Chris is going to be okay in that house all by his lonesome?_ If he knows the rest of his castmates at all, he’s sure they’ll be calling him one by one over the next few days. Karl first and Zach—if he calls at all—last. 

After he hangs up with Zoe, he looks down at his plate. He carefully unwraps each of the _pasteles_ and stacks the plantain leaves next to his wine glass. Then, he takes one careful bite. Then another. Then another. By the time he’s finished the first one, he’s making appreciative noises. By the time his plate is clean, he actually feels a little better. He always does when he has a full stomach, especially when it’s full of genuinely good food.

He carries his dishes to the sink and looks around at all the pots and pans he has to wash and lets out a deep, weary sigh. He lives alone. If he wanted, he could walk out of the kitchen and leave the dishes for days and no one would be the wiser. Or he could put on NPR or, even better, get out a record—Old Blue Eyes maybe, so he can croon along. Dish-washing would pass by in the blink of an eye then. But tonight, all of that seems abhorrent to him. He doesn’t want to wash the dishes. He doesn’t want to _not_ was the dishes. He doesn’t want to stare over the sink and look out at the view of the backyard and the hills beyond, the twinkling lights of distant houses, but he also doesn’t want to set his plate down and get in bed, because he knows he’ll end up staring at the ceiling, counting three hours ahead, wondering if Zach is already asleep or awake and scrolling aimlessly through Netflix waiting for some gross reality show to catch his eye.

Chris throws the plate in the sink hard enough he’s surprised it doesn’t break. The clatter is satisfying. He almost picks it up and throws it down again, but that’d be a little _too_ dramatic, even for him. Sighing, he pours himself another glass of wine and wanders into the living room to turn on the TV. Maybe he could use some mindless Netflix himself. The dishes can wait until he’s in a better frame of mind—if such a time ever comes.

### 3\. Sex Toys

He probably just needs to get laid, but fat chance of that happening any time soon. It takes too much work these days. He has to pick the right bar—not too crowded, not too empty, not too overrun by social climbers. He has to round up a friend or two, because going out without a wingman is more than a little ill-advised. He has to drink enough to loosen up but not enough to let his guard down. He has to vet every person he talks to, watching for signs that they’re too giddy at being hit on by a celebrity. Even _thinking_ about all of that is exhausting. 

What he really needs is a friend-with-benefits. Someone he feels comfortable with who he can also let off steam with from time to time. And maybe cuddle a little. Someone who’d help him put a dent in all the food he’s cooked over the past couple days. Someone who would fill up some of the empty space and silence in his house, in his life. 

Okay, so maybe what he needs is not a friend-with-benefits after all. It’s a relationship. But that’s not really an option at the moment, so what can he do?

He can rummage through the bottom drawer in his nightstand and pull out an array of relationship substitutes.

Just _one_ good orgasm would help, he thinks. Not half-hearted, too-dry jerking off before bed, but something that’ll make his toes curl and leave him feeling satiated. He’s not usually one for artificial stimulation—most of the toys he owns were gag gifts, drunk Amazon purchases, or bought to appease ex-partners—but desperate times call for desperate measures.

He paws through the pile with his nose wrinkled in distaste. If Zach were here, he’d get a lecture about internalized Puritanical shame or something. _There’s nothing wrong with pleasuring yourself, Christopher._ But Zach isn’t here, and that’s kind of the problem, isn’t it? That’s why Chris is avoiding looking at that hot pink dildo—that was a gag gift from John, if he remembers correctly—because if he doesn’t acknowledge its existence he won’t start thinking about how good it would feel to be stuffed full right now, to be able to close his eyes and imagine he’s not alone in bed, to have that emptiness in the pit of his stomach crowded out by something else, anything else, if only for a little while.

His phone rings, and he jumps.

Zach has great timing. It’s almost uncanny actually. Chris thinks about letting it go to voicemail, because that would be the _smart_ thing to do, but his thumb moves to answer without his consent.

“Hey,” he breathes into the phone, hoping he sounds normal.

“So, I’ve been waiting for you to call me ever since Zoe told me you went on a little cooking spree.”

Chris sighs. He’d been expecting this, after all. Simon and John and Karl all have been texting him more often since the night Chris talked to Zoe. So yeah, he should have known she talked to Zach too, and yeah, if circumstances were different, he wouldn’t have shut Zach out. He tries to imagine Zach pestering all of them— _Please tell him to call me_ —but it seems a little far-fetched. Zach doesn’t even sound all that concerned now; his voice in Chris’s ear is almost bored, maybe even a little amused.

“How come you never cook your feelings away when I’m there, by the way?” Zach asks. “I’m feeling short-changed.”

“Get your ass over here, and I’ll cook you whatever you want,” Chris says, keeping his voice light even though he absolutely means every word.

“Sure. I’m buying my plane ticket now.”

“You could, you know.” Chris hates himself for saying it, but he’d probably also hate himself if he hadn’t, so what-the-fuck-ever. 

“Could what?”

“Buy a plane ticket. Come visit.”

“Chris,” Zach says gently.

That tone in Zach’s voice is infuriating. Chris can handle everyone else treating him like he’s made of glass. He can handle Zoe’s exasperated mothering and Karl’s awful attempts at being funny and John’s big-brotherly advice. But Zach? No. Zach doesn’t even know what the problem is. He might think he does, but he doesn’t. It’s not non-specific loneliness. It’s not some kind of grief hangover. 

“Compromise then,” Chris says. “Tell me about your day. All about it. Every little detail.”

“I called to talk about _you_ , Pine.” 

“Well, I don’t want to talk about me. I just want to get out of my head for a little bit. So you want to help me? Monologue.”

Zach makes a little considering sound. “You just love the sound of my voice, huh?”

“No, _you_ love the sound of your voice.” 

And yet the moment Zach starts talking, Chris starts inching his palm down his own belly. It’s not exactly what he planned when he asked Zach to talk. He really did just want to listen and let his mind drift for a while and feel closer to him. But it’s just too much temptation. He needs this. _Needs_ it.

There’s probably an ethical dilemma here, he thinks. Hell, if he asked, Zach would probably be happy to help him out in this area. It wouldn’t be the first time they got off on the sound of each other’s voices. But right now, Chris doesn’t want him to know. He listens to Zach talk about walking the dogs through the park and buying a hot dog from the little stand he likes. He listens as Zach describes the two scripts he read today in hopes of finding something new for Before the Door. He listens, and he tries to keep his breathing even, tries not to stroke himself too fast so Zach won’t hear. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and squeezes his eyes shut and chokes back every noise. Finally, he abandons all that and puts himself on mute, turns on speakerphone, and throws the phone down on the bed. Zach is none the wiser. He’s still going on about the wonderful Merlot he drank with dinner— _It was like someone spread blackberry jam on my tongue, Chris, you’ve gotta try it_ —when Chris is having that toe-curling orgasm he wanted, throwing his head back on the pillow and shouting Zach’s name as he shoots all over his own chest.

His breathing is only just barely back under control when Zach says, “Alright, hard as it may be to believe, I’m running out of things to say. How are you feeling over there?”

Chris scrambles to pick up the phone again and take himself off mute. If his voice comes out a little hoarse, hopefully Zach will chalk it up to emotion. “Better,” he says. It’s the truth, isn’t it? “Thanks, man.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” There’s that gentle tone again, but this time it doesn’t bother Chris as much.

“It’s just post-press tour ennui,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

“Ennui,” Zach snorts. Then, quieter, he adds, “I hear you.”

The way he says it, his voice almost wistful, Chris can almost believe they’re on the same page. But no, if Zach wanted to be with him, he had ample opportunity to make that happen. If he was really as happy as he seemed when they were touring, he wouldn’t have left again. Chris looks down at the mess on his t-shirt and is suddenly disgusted. What the fuck is he even _doing_?

It’s another five minutes before he can find a safe moment to exit the conversation—with promises to call Zach again soon, even though he has no plans to do so. He hangs up, throws his phone down on the bed so hard it bounces, then sweeps the collection of toys off the bed and back into the drawer. He’s going to go out after all, he decides. He’ll go out and pull the hottest girl he can get, just to remind himself that he can—and maybe he’ll even bring her back to this house, show her around, let her be impressed by the whole movie star vibe. Maybe if he puts on a good enough show, he’ll even buy it himself. And when he gets her in bed and her hands are on him and his mouth is on her and she’s shuddering against him, maybe—hopefully—he won’t even think of Zach.

### 4\. Working Out

Intense cardio has never been Chris’s favorite, but it does have this to recommend it: if he gets his heart beating fast enough, his blood pumping hard enough, his brain shuts off. In the past he’s had a preference for less strenuous things like yoga or swimming or weight training, but lately he finds himself heading out his front door in the evenings and going for long runs through the hills instead, losing himself in the sound of his feet pounding the pavement and his own labored breathing. He doesn’t jog; he flat-out _runs_ , pushing himself right to the edge of his ability and keeping himself there until he’s sure he’ll collapse if he doesn’t stop. More than once, he has to veer off the path and vomit into the dirt, his head pounding with exertion. A couple times, he nearly overdoes it and ends up leaning against someone’s mailbox with dark spots floating in front of his eyes, trying his best not to pass out.

It does the trick though. If he runs hard enough and long enough, he doesn’t think about Zach on the walk home or all through his shower, and he falls asleep fast enough that he can’t think about him then either. He’s getting thin again, trading bulk for lean muscle, but that’s okay too. It means he doesn’t seen a hint of Kirk when he looks in the mirror. His hair is growing longer, and he’s let his beard come back in, and all of it helps. He can’t outrun his own mind, but he can outrun the person he was all summer long. He can leave that version of himself behind.

Well—temporarily, at least. It always comes creeping back as soon as he wakes up, a little at a time. He’ll put on his new red sneakers and think about the skeptical face Zach made when Chris came waltzing out of the shoe store in China wearing them. Or he’ll order a pizza and end up thinking about the pizza place Zach took him to the first time he visited him in New York. Then he’ll start craving that pizza. Then he’ll start craving Zach.

It only gets worse after he caves and adopts a dog. He tells himself he needs the companionship, but every time he comes home after his runs and finds her there waiting at the door for him, wagging her tail and jumping up on him like he’s been gone for days, he can’t help but think it’d be better if _she_ had a companion. He knows of a couple terrier mixes that would do the trick, if they weren’t thousands of miles away. 

He takes her on a couple runs, but she necessarily slows him down. He can’t push himself when he’s worried about her. She might be good for him in that way. She makes him slow down sometimes, but then sometimes he leaves her home and runs himself into the ground anyway. 

Even with the house full of the pattering of puppy feet, he can’t stay distracted. He still is thinking about Zach again by midday each day at the latest. And by the time evening rolls around again and the light starts going soft and fuzzy outside, he’s going out of his mind, ready to run again, ready to exhaust himself again. The relief of exertion is only temporary, but it’s worth it.

### 5\. Music

For someone who doesn’t use Instagram, Chris spends a lot of time on it. It’s like the more he tells himself not to follow what Zach is posting, the more his fingers itch to take out his phone and check. 

He watches the video of Zach singing “Blackbird” almost every day. He downloaded the damn thing to his home computer, just in case Zach ever takes it down. It seems like so long ago that he got the notification on his phone and opened up the app to see Zach sitting there with his banjo, plucking out the familiar opening notes. Singing to the camera. Singing for _Chris_. 

He’d texted Zach right away, after he saw it the first time.

_Trying to tell me something, Quinto?_

_Just that I can’t wait to see you._

It seems like a lifetime ago.

Chris takes to playing his guitar more often. Though he doesn’t lose himself in music the same way he can lose himself in acting or writing or drawing, it’s soothing in a way those other things aren’t. When he’s playing and singing, he can say things he can’t say with his own words.

Music soothes the savage beast, and in this case, the beast is called longing.

Of course it brings up memories of Zach, but it’s easier to let them just flow through him when he’s in the middle of picking out a tune. He thinks of all the times they jammed together in one of their trailers, and it brings a smile to his face. He thinks about all those nights spent practicing just so the next time he and Zach played together, it would go more smoothly, and he could focus on Zach’s face rather than what his own fingers were doing. All these memories are good ones. They don’t make his heart hurt quite as badly as some of the others.

Working with the inimitable Jeff Bridges gave Chris a newfound appreciation for the blues, and he he can’t even pretend it isn’t an appropriate genre for his mood lately. He doesn’t have to worry about his voice sounding pretty, and he can strum the chords hard enough that they sound sour and off-key, and somehow it all still works. It isn’t supposed to be pristine. It’s supposed to be emotional. And if there’s one thing Chris has a lot of these days, it’s emotion.

He plays Muddy Waters and Stevie Ray Vaughan and B.B. King until his fingers are sore and his calluses are coming back. He sings until Wednesday is howling along with him, and he has to stop because he’s laughing so hard and swiping tears from the corners of his eyes—from the laughter or from sadness, he’s not sure. At least his dog is a fan of good music too. She comes by it honest. 

One afternoon, when he’s picking out the notes of Elvis’s “Tryin’ to Get to You”, it hits him.

_“When I read your loving letter,”_ he sings to his empty house, _“then my heart began to sing. There were many miles between us, but they didn't mean a thing.”_

He didn’t choose the song by accident—it’s a good one for putting his feelings into words. Sometimes it feels like all he does between the times he gets to see Zach is struggle, like swimming upstream, fighting against a current that keeps them apart. But _why_? Why has he spent all this time trying to forget Zach, trying not to think about him too much? All he’s done is wallow and pine, and judging from the evidence he has on hand—Zach’s “Blackbird” video and the fact that he’s always _always_ happy to see him and the fact that he’s feeling the post-tour malaise too—Zach might very well be in the same place. So what the fuck are they doing, exactly? 

_”I just had to reach you, baby_  
_In spite of all that I've been through_  
_I kept traveling night and day_  
_I kept running all the way_  
_Baby, trying to get to you.”_

He trails off then, strumming aimlessly and staring at Wednesday’s black-and-white face. She’s staring back at him with her head cocked, like she’s wondering if he’s lost his mind. He _has_ lost his mind. He’s been going the wrong direction. Trying to get away instead of trying to get closer. And for what reason? None that he can see.

### ...and What Happened When He Stopped Trying

It’s not going to be like a movie, Chris reminds himself. In real life you can’t just show up on someone’s doorstep and say _look, I’m here, love me,_ and expect them to burst into tears and fall into your arms. He’ll be lucky if Zach doesn’t laugh him all the way back to LA.

But this is one thing the movies do get right: you have to try. The people who end up getting the girl—or the guy—are the ones who believe they can, the ones who believe they have just as much right to happiness as anyone else. It may not work out every time, but it works out exponentially more often than sitting still and waiting for life to bust down the door and dump good things in your lap.

It’s just after eight in the evening when the elevator lets Chris out on Zach’s floor. Zach could be anywhere. He could be out. He could be in the cabin upstate. Chris could be about to prove himself a colossal dumbass, but he tries not to think about that. He pours all his will into putting one foot in front of the other, then to raising his fist and knocking on Zach’s door.

There are twelve full seconds of silence. Chris counts them out, holding his breath the whole time. Then he hears footsteps. The door swings open. Zach is suddenly, vividly, right in front of him.

He looks fantastic—better than the picture Chris has in his mind’s eye. The beard is still there, and he’s wearing that jungle green sweater that brings out the amber in his eyes, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the soft hair on his arms. His feet are bare, and his jeans are frayed at the bottom and worn around the knees. When he opened the door, his eyebrows were raised in a silent question, but now they are furrowed, and his mouth has dropped open in surprise.

“Chris,” he says, “what—”

“Hi,” Chris says, letting out the breath he was holding.

Zach shakes his head minutely. “Did you tell me you were going to be in town?”

“No, I didn’t. It was last minute.” Understatement of the century. He forces a smile. “Can I come in, or are you…?”

He glances around Zach, trying to gauge whether he was interrupting something. A television is on somewhere in the apartment, but they are alone as far as he can tell. The dogs have come to say hello, but they sniff around his feet and accept ear scritches and then lose interest again. Chris is too familiar to rate much excitement in their old age.

“Uhh, of course,” Zach says. He steps back to let Chris pass and closes the door behind him. “I guess you didn’t bring the new dog?”

“Nah, Katie is watching her,” Chris says, rocking back on his heels. “I didn’t think it was fair to put her on a plane when she’s still getting used to things.”

“Good call. You can sit, if you want. Do you want something to drink? Wine? Beer?”

“No thanks.” Before Zach can head toward the kitchen, Chris reaches out to grab his arm. “And actually, I should probably just...try to get this out.”

Zach frowns. “Get what out?”

Chris mentally recited fifty different versions of this speech on the plane and in the cab. It was a little bit Jane Austen in his head, so much so that he actually imagined a version where a raincloud appeared in Zach’s foyer and soaked them both to the bone. This isn’t a book or a movie though. This is real life, and Zach is right in front of him, and somehow even the most romantic words don’t seem like they’ll be enough. Or...maybe it’s that they seem like too much. Because he and Zach have never talked about their feelings in grandiose terms, and it seems silly to start now. In a minute, Chris’s presence is going to speak for itself anyway.

“It’s been a rough couple months,” he blurts. 

Zach falters, clearly taken aback, but then some of the surprise softens out of his face. “I...know. For me too.”

“Yeah.” Chris can’t help but smile. “Yeah, but see...that’s the thing. It’s been hard on us, but I don’t see why.” When Zach frowns, Chris takes a step forward, wishing he could just take him into his arms and forget about the part where he has to talk about this. “I’ve just been thinking a lot about how much we look forward to those few weeks where we’re joined at the hip, and how much we dread it when they’re over. And how hard it is to last until the next one. It seems harder every time.”

Zach huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “It’s just the way it is, Pine.”

“Why, though? Why does it have to be that way?” He runs a hand through his hair and licks his lips nervously. “I think I remember why it was at the beginning. Because of me, right? Because I didn’t want the same things you wanted.”

“I guess,” Zach says slowly, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s trying to protect himself. “I’m clingy. You hate commitment.” He shrugs one shoulder. “A few weeks every couple years made the most sense.”

“What if I don’t think it makes sense anymore?” Chris says. 

He isn’t expecting Zach to snort and turn away from him, headed for the kitchen. “Okay, if you’re going to be talking crazy, I need some wine.”

“I’m not talking crazy,” Chris insists as he gives chase. “Would I have flown all the way across the country if I hadn’t thought this through?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Zach says without even turning around. He opens and closes as few cabinets unnecessarily, as if he’s so flustered he’s forgotten where he’s kept his own wine glasses. When he finally finds them, he gets two out and sets them down hard enough on the island that Chris is surprised they don’t shatter. But then Zach stills, leaning heavily on the counter like he can barely stay upright. “Look, Chris, this is not your decision to make. I’m not going to change my whole life around just to find out in a few months that you’re chafing and want your freedom again.”

Chris smiles. He smiles, because this is exactly what he expected Zach to say, and there’s something incredibly endearing about how thick-headed he can be. 

“What?” Zach snaps.

“Weren’t you going to pour some wine?”

Zach looks down at the glasses as if seeing them for the first time, and his shoulders slump. “Chris,” he sighs. “What is this?”

“How many weeks has it been since the press tour ended?” Chris asks.

“Almost eight,” Zach answers automatically. From his tone, Chris has a feeling that, if pressed, Zach could pin it down to the minute.

“Plus the time in between the first leg and the second.”

Zach inclines his head, not giving Chris that point but not arguing it either.

“I missed you that whole time, Zach,” Chris says, holding Zach’s gaze defiantly. “I missed you from the moment we were apart. Fuck, I miss you _now_.”

“I’m standing right here.”

“You’re not, though.” Chris steps forward, starting to circle around the island toward Zach. “I mean...I mean, you _are_ , but it’s like you’re not close enough. Not physically, but…” He trails off, shaking his head, wishing he’d rehearsed this even more. “I know I fucked up in the past. I know I didn’t give you everything you needed, so you’ve been holding back on me since then. But I don’t want you to hold back anymore.”

“That’s a nice sentiment, Chris,” Zach says, “but they’re just words.”

And again, Chris mouth curls into a grin, because he expected that too. Whatever else can be said of him, no one can say he doesn’t _know_ Zach. He knows him inside and out, possibly better than Zach knows himself. 

“I wish you’d cut that out,” Zach says uneasily. He leans back a little when Chris moves into his personal space, flinches a little when Chris sets a hand on his waist.

“You’re scared,” Chris says.

“Fuck _yes_ , I’m scared. That’s the only rational way to feel right now.”

“Yeah?” Chris chuckles, undeterred. “Well let me tell you: I’m scared too.” And now that the words have started pouring out, he can’t stop them. They pour forth in a torrent. “I’m scared because, for the first time in my life, I haven’t felt comfortable on my own. My house feels too fucking big and too fucking quiet. I miss you so goddamn much. I miss the way you monologue about the stupidest shit, until I want to slap a hand over your mouth just to shut you up. I miss how you have to have everything your way. I don’t _want_ to have everything my way anymore. I want to compromise and...and to make someone else happy for a change. And I want that person to be you.” Zach is staring at him, wide-eyed, mouth hanging open, and Chris takes that as a good sign and soldiers on. “I want you there every morning when I wake up, and every night when I go to sleep. I want you to smother me and annoy me and...and fucking _infuriate_ me. I want to bicker with you, and have make-up sex. I want to be able to say sometime down the road that I didn’t just live for myself and it’s the best decision I ever made, because I loved someone and someone loved me, and that’s all that matters.”

Zach lets out a shocked breath. “Chris…”

But Chris cuts him off. He isn’t done. “I’m tired of half-assing it, Zach. And I’ll bet you are too. I don’t want to be _almost_ happy because I’m too scared to reach for more than that.” He takes a deep breath and rushes on. “If you don’t feel the same way, tell me now, and I’ll get out of your hair. But I had to try. I couldn’t keep trying to put you out of my head when there was a chance I didn’t have to.”

The silence that follows seems to go on forever. Zach looks like a rabbit gone tharn, and Chris can’t tell if he’s more shocked that he managed to make a good argument or that he bothered to argue at all. Because looking back on it, Chris has been all too willing to let the chips fall where they may. He didn’t put up a fight when Zach moved away, and he hasn’t fought for him at any point since then. But he’s fighting now. He just hopes it’s not too late.

“Zach?” Chris says, tentatively putting a hand to Zach’s face.

“God, Chris. I just….” Zach lets his eyes fall shut. “I imagined this so many times, but I never thought it’d actually happen. I never thought…”

“Never thought I’d pull my head out of my ass?” Chris offers.

Zach grins, then opens his eyes again. As he starts to lean in, his gaze on Chris’s mouth, he says, “Never thought I’d be so lucky.”

It isn’t their first kiss a long shot, but it feels like it is, because this is the first time Chris has kissed Zach thinking it would be wonderful if neither of them kissed anyone else ever again. He slides his fingers back into Zach’s hair and wraps the other arm around his waist to pull him close, and he kisses him like it’s the only thing that matters, keeping his eyes wide open so he can remember every bit of it.

When Zach drags his mouth away and rests his forehead on Chris’s shoulder, he’s shaking—maybe with silent laughter, but probably with something else. His voice is shaking too, when he speaks, bordering on hysterical. “I set you up for a joke about getting lucky just now, you know.”

“God, shut up,” Chris laughs, dragging Zach’s mouth up to his again. But just before their lips meet he shakes his head, taking it back. “No, never shut up,” he says, and kisses Zach hard. “Never shut up again, okay?”


End file.
